


Aziraphale's Secret Biscuit Recipe (Or, How Crowley Finally Won His Angel)

by lhale713



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Baking, Crowley Cooks (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Food-Lover Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gen, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Ineffable Partners, Jealous Crowley, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Slow Burn, The Dowlings New Pastry Chef is an ass, aziraphale gets flirted with by humans, aziraphale is sassy but quiet about it, aziraphale's pastry opinions, crowleys love language is acts of service, ineffable husbands, slow burn aziraphale /crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-13 17:31:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20586329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lhale713/pseuds/lhale713
Summary: After four long years working in the middle of nowhere on the Dowling's Estate, with no respectable baking establishments, Aziraphale is thrilled to finally have a pastry chef coming! He's drawn up plans and suggestions and is hoping to befriend the lad right away.Except things go absolutely... pear-shaped.Its now up to Crowley to find a way to stop Aziraphale from getting them both sacked.





	1. As Bitter as Lemons

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Possible Eating Disorder Triggers - This story will wind up dealing with incredibly strict dieting and a particular conception of the cult of healthy/clean eating; which some readers may find upsetting. Please be mindful of your comfort and take care. 
> 
> There is some character/setting bleed over from [Aziraphale's British Bake-Off](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20544653) but the references are tangential and can stand on their own.

Aziraphale knows, really, that as a celestial being he shouldn’t be irate and exhausted and grateful to be home in his bookshop. He shouldn’t feel any different here than anywhere else on Earth. But that doesn’t mean that after his last day as Brother Francis, the Dowling's Humble Gardener and secret guide to the Antichrist, he isn’t absolutely thrilled to be back. After spending so many years in the Dowling’s employ, stuck on their estate unless he could concoct a reason for Brother Francis to need a day trip, Aziraphale missed London.

He wasn’t excited about having to run people out of his shop again, or about being so far from Crowley, but he knew that both of those things were a small price to pay to be back in the thrum and bustle. He had left the Dowlings in the human fashion, getting dropped off at a train station – not the best mode of travel, but better than all those years on horseback. He quickly miracled out of the Brother Francis get up. That outfit, he had come to learn, was strange from the get-go, but it would only get stranger as he got closer to London. When he finally walked onto his little SoHo block, he was so relieved several flowers spontaneously bloomed in the sidewalk cracks. He spent the rest of the day checking in on his bookshop, his contacts in the rare book world, and discerning which of his favourite restaurants were still there. He settled back into his armchair after an evening run to the bakery at the end of the block. It was run by a portly old man named Simon, who had a bushy beard and a habit of holding back a batch of biscuits to be fresh-baked for the late night crowd. He sighed and began eating each biscuit like a grateful prayer.

There hadn’t been a proper bakery in the town outside the Dowling’s estate; and they had brought in their chefs from America. None of them knew a damn thing about English baking, and could really only handle some basic French and Italian pastry, plus the sickly sweet American style they learned as children. To make matters worse, when a proper pastry chef did come, he was of a particular school of American health-conscious baking.1  After all, the current American First Lady was on a health kick, and the Ambassador’s wife had fallen flawlessly in line. Never mind the horrendous geopolitical risk she was running with these insulting desserts. America and England may have had a “special relationship”, but loving marriages had fallen apart over cooking such as this. 

The pastry chef had arrived several years after Aziraphale and Crowley; when Warlock was about 4. “Chef Chet” had come when it became clear that the Dowlings would have to host a large number of politically important dinners, and that meant proper dessert courses. Apparently, he had worked in Los Angeles as a chef for a place Aziraphale had never heard of, as well as overhauling the public school lunch system. The day Chet arrived, Aziraphale was on high alert. He was, of course, overjoyed to have a pastry chef on board, and had come prepared with some suggestions. He knew the Brother Francis character he played would seem unlikely to know a great deal about the ins and out of French patisserie, but he hoped he could at least advocate for something more advanced than crème puffs and shortbread biscuits.

Then Aziraphale saw Chet, and all his plans went out the window. Even from across the yard, Aziraphale could tell this was a man not like any pastry chef he had met before. He was two inches shorter than Aziraphale, but made of nothing but muscle, in a polo shirt half a size too tight and straining around his biceps. His hair was gelled into a little flip in the front and the depth of his tan either spoke to hours of in the sun or quite an expensive tanning bed subscription. He was carrying a duffle bag and a smoothie, walking the grounds with Mrs. Dowling. She was pointing at various fruit trees and edible flowers that Aziraphale had put in, she had wanted the staff to find ways to incorporate the estate’s produce into the cuisine. Chet seemed enthused about the fruits, so Aziraphale decided this was his best moment to broker an introduction. He waved and began that aged, friendly shuffle he had developed for Brother Francis, calling out as he did so.

“Ms. Dowling, always a pleasure to see the prettiest flower of the estate. And I take it this must be our new Chef!! Ah, welcome Brother, welcome! I am Brother Francis, the humble gardener here. How was your journey? I heard you’ve traveled some ways to join us here.” Aziraphale laid it on thick, his fake Northern accent stretching credulity.

“Mhm, delighted….I’m Chet.” Chet pursed his lips and pointedly looked at Aziraphales outstretched hand, but did not extend his own. Rather, he held his hand up to play with the leaves of a short tree beside him. “Brother…Francis…”Chet seemed uncertain if he had to address Aziraphale that way, and glanced to Ms. Dowling. She gave a small nod, having accepted this peculiarity long ago. Chet continued: “Amazing, how you’ve managed to get these lemons to grow all the way up here. I had several lemon trees in my home in LA, but never imagined they could survive in such a dim and cool environment… I look forward to using them.” His affected and haughty tone struck Aziraphale as almost bitter, most unfitting for a pastry chef.

“Oh! Its all about showing respect for God’s creatures, truly, just show them the right loving care and they’ll grow where they’re planted. Thinking of lemon cakes? Lemon bars? Lemon Meringue pies?” Aziraphale got slightly carried away at the end, and his desire showed through. “I imagine, someone brought in special must know how to make things I could scarcely dream of!”

Chet gave a smile so strained it could have been called a grimace. He forced cheer into his voice: “Oh, I think citrusy parfaits, the occasional nice tart pavlova, some times. Mostly, though, lemon juice can keep other fruits from browning in the air – so essential when you’ve got heaps of fresh fruit for dessert. Can’t have the star of the dish going brown and soft on us!”

“Ahhh, I see, truly a man of nature!” Aziraphale had soured, but was persevering in the pleasant charade.

“Yes, I advocate for only natural ingredients, organic when possible, and trying to find inventive ways of making desserts satisfying without much sugar or fat – I’ve found my work teaches people how to truly appreciate the rest of their palate! Dessert doesn’t have to be as sweet as your English puddings to be lovely! I saw an adorable little apple tree on my way in today, and if you ask me, that with a little cinnamon sliced up and baked is more than sweet enough!” Chet grinned and took a sip of his smoothie – though Aziraphale was increasingly uncertain it had any right to be called that – and tilted his head towards Ms. Dowling, who was smiling approvingly at him, her hand resting on her skirt’s waistband.

“Well, now, Brother Chet, its been lovely, but I’m due to tend the begonias. Ms. Dowling, by your leave.” Aziraphale made an exaggerated sweep of his hat and puttered off. Truthfully, he wasn’t certain what a begonia was or if he had miracled one up. He just knew he needed to leave.

Early the next morning, Aziraphale was reading as he waited for the dawn. He had been given a small flat above the carriage house on the Estate, and had filled it with the sort of things he imagined Brother Francis to have. Comfortable, threadbare couches. Some old copper pots and a very small ice chest. Not a fridge, an actual ice chest. He had a simple bed and there was a half-whittled stick on a side table, as though Aziraphale actually knew how to whittle. The entire place was done in plaid or soft off-white linens. It smelled vaguely of hay, though it wasn’t clear why. Aziraphale spent his nights there, and while he didn’t sleep he did enjoy the quiet of the night and the chance to catch up on correspondence and his books.

He would not admit it, but he also used a good deal of this time to stew over things. For the bulk of the night, his book had lain neglected in his lap as he thought about the nonsense “Chef Chet” had espoused about desserts not needing any sweetness. Absolute balderdash. He was cataloguing all the wonderful things he had eaten that were more than 60% sugar, when his thoughts were rudely interrupted. Someone was shouting “One! Two! One! Two! One! Two!” over and over again. 

He knew full well the American security team kept the estate locked tighter than a drum. There was no way this person was any danger to him. Yet Aziraphale still peeked out the window as though he was desperate to remain hidden. He gently pulled aside the curtain, with its clumsy crochet lace trim, and saw a shape at the junction of the main garden path and the one the branched off to pass his home. It was jumping and contorting itself, hands up in the air, suddenly on the ground, and then back to a standing pose again. The figure turned towards his path and started to jog down it. Aziraphale quickly miracled a motion sensor light below his window, which caught the figure by alarm. He backed up and shielded his eyes to peer into the window. 

It was Chef Chet. Clearly out for a very early run, combined with some form of calisthenics. His hair was sweaty and flopped over his forehead, and he wore hot pink gym shorts that seemed designed to stop just before the point they would be called indecent. Chef Chet leaned back to wave at the window, Aziraphale realized the muscle tank paired with those shorts had the words “BEEF CAKE” in a squishy font, dripping with icing, emblazoned on his chest to look like a frosted confection. Chet started to jog back down the path, away from Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale did not know if Chet could actually see him in the window, or if the wave was merely performative. Nor did he particularly care. Aziraphale, as a divine being, had to have a certain degree of love for all of God’s creatures. And that included Chet. But that did not mean he had to like all of God’s creatures, and Aziraphale very much did not like Chef Chet.

  1. Chet didn’t work for Famine per se, but he did work for a company that worked alongside Famine – they stopped short of wanting people to starve, they just wanted food to be unenjoyable and promote a specific idea of thinness and health. The difference amounted to about 2.6 pounds per person, and an average of 4 inches around the waist.


	2. Some Fresh London Air

Over the next week, Chet’s morning routine continued, and Aziraphale grew to despise it even more. Sometimes he peered out the window, sometimes he sought to hide away from the chipper wave. The shame was he could still sense it, even when he couldn’t actually see it. Chet seemed to have an endless supply of these pun based shirts. So far, he had worn ones with “Beef Cake”, “stud muffin”; “BEST BUNS”, and “Tough Cookie”. The pastry puns only served to salt the wound caused by this pathetic excuse for a pastry chef.

Aziraphale had complained to Crowley about it on their next trip to a museum. It was the first time they had slipped away since Chet came on board. The Dowlings had taken Warlock to an event that Nanny Ashtoreth could not attend, and Aziraphale had arranged to take a day off that same day. (1) They had both ridden the train down to London, and slipped back into their London selves – Aziraphale dropping the Brother Francis disguise for his usual waistcoat and blazer before even boarding the train. Crowley had simply dressed in his usual too-tight trousers and putting his hair in a half-bun, forgoing makeup. They looked, for all intents and purposes, like any other of the other tourists milling through London.

As they walked past the art of the museum, Crowley quietly miracling incorrect information onto the plaques, Aziraphale recited the terrible puns. 

“Angel, if I recall, you’re the one who got Shakespeare so into the puns. I mean, these pale in comparison to what you suggested to him. Actually, you might be to blame for the entire world of pun based humor…. Funny, I thought I got a commendation for that…” Crowley knew that Shakespeare was both of their faults, and that they both had received commendations for his career. Crowley, because it would torture generations of students and would encourage puns, the lowest form of wit. Aziraphale was rewarded for the creation of Great Literature that would influence students for generations to come, and because it would encourage puns, a form of humor the Almighty was particularly fond of.

“Yes, but these are terrible, because he’s actually making bad baked goods and quite fit! If he wasn’t trying to be the next Adonis and actually could bake, I’d be perfectly alright with all of this.” Aziraphale was whining a little, and he knew that he should stop. “What does Warlock think of him? How is he reacting to all of this?”

Crowley shrugged. “The kid is 4. He doesn’t like anything healthy. Chet brought up a plate of apples and homemade organic peanut butter as a snack the other day and Warlock ate one and told him the peanut butter tasted like butts. Chet said that wasn’t very nice, and Warlock informed him that it was true, so it didn’t matter whether it was nice or not. Chet retreated pretty quickly after that. Warlock doesn’t get dessert most nights, so I haven’t had a chance to see anything else he’s made.”

“While I’m certain the boy’s analysis was accurate, I’ll be certain to mention something about kindness and tact next time I talk to him. But really, if even an American child, with such an unrefined palate, can’t stand his work….” Aziraphale let his sentence trail off into a sigh. 

Crowley watched as Aziraphale strode past a sign for a new exhibit that would be coming, the first major showing of works by Wayne Thiebaud. The sign contained a few example paintings – a woman with an ice cream cone, a bakery case full of cakes, and a small [stack of overlapping biscuits](https://www.artforum.com/picks/wayne-thiebaud-60101). Aziraphale looked at the painting like he was considering eating the paper, maybe the entire stand. Lucky the exhibit wasn’t up yet, thought Crowley, because in this state of despair Aziraphale could turn its destruction into a performance art exhibit on gluttony. Crowley smiled softly and filed that particular thought away for a rainy day, when the temptation to dabble in the art world arose again. He’d need to ask Abramovic for someone weird enough to give that particular temptation to.

“And I doubt the stuff you miracle up has been doing it for you. I imagine you’ve already got your haunts for this afternoon picked?” Crowley stopped short of inviting himself, keeping the question carefully neutral.

“Oh! Of course. I imagined heading over to the little teal place by the bookshop. It’d be a lovely stroll, and you are right – there just is something special about having it properly baked for you.” Aziraphale pressed his hand to where his heart would be, “You can feel the love in them that way.” Aziraphale brightened considerably as he and Crowley strolled towards the exit. “I assume you know you’re welcome? These things are best shared, after all.” Crowley shrugged lightly and let Aziraphale take the lead, glad the angel had once again chosen to invite him.

Inside the bakery, Aziraphale greeted the proprietor with cheer – he and Crowley were familiar faces by this point, just shy of regulars. The owner had started on Crowley’s coffee when he came in, and passed it to him as Aziraphale ordered his selection for the day. He got a slice of her Dobos Torte, a slice of Battenberg Cake, and two traditional jumbles. Ostensibly, these were to share, but they all knew Crowley would take exactly one bite of a biscuit and simply sip his coffee as he watched Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale and Crowley sat in the mismatched chairs at the front of the shop, and watched the people passing by. Crowley was telling Aziraphale how Warlock had decided to refuse to eat “brother cow” or “brother chicken”. Aziraphale beamed at this, but Crowley held up a finger and informed him in that Warlock found eating “brother fish” completely acceptable, because they couldn’t make noises so they weren’t really animals that mattered. Crowley had then pointed out that if you duct tape someone’s mouth shut, they weren’t able to make sounds either, and so could safely be eaten. Warlock had considered that for a minute, and said that he thought duct tape might be cheating, because they would be trying and Brother Francis said that trying counted for a lot. Crowley summed up by saying that he thought it was just that Warlock was going through a bit of a fish sticks phase, and wanted to manipulate his parents into making the frozen food every night. “And that’s an incredibly human thing to do, you know, faking morality or claiming there’s some higher power to justify you getting what you want!? Not good or evil, just human. Possibly the most human thing they do, that.”

As Crowley was in the process of saying it, he realized how terrible it sounded. How like their arrangement it sounded. What were he and Aziraphale doing but manipulating morality, Heaven, Hell, the Great and Ineffable Plan in order to justify…. What? Fine Art? The human condition? A few more years of bookshops and boozy nights?? A world full of petty, malicious humans capable of great kindnesses? Their home? No, just…just whatever they wanted, and whatever that was wasn’t possible without the world as it was.

They had sat in uncomfortable silence for longer than Crowley wanted. He knew Aziraphale was thinking about how this was, really, mucking around in the Almighty’s plan. Thwart-for-thwart it might be, but the more time they spent together the thinner that excuse seemed. They both just didn’t want this to be over yet. Like when you take smaller and smaller bites of cake, wishing that there was just a little more on the plate, that you could keep enjoying it.

Crowley was out of coffee. Aziraphale was out of pastry. They were running out of excuses and running out of time.

Finally, Aziraphale looked at his pocket watch. “My dear, if we’re trying to get back to the Estate tonight, the last train leaves soon. I can’t quite justify the miracle.” Crowley knew he could have just miracled himself up there, but a demon miraculously transporting an angel would have to raise some alarms somewhere. At least, Crowley hoped it would have. Crowley stood and sauntered towards the door. “Alright, meet you on the train then. I’ve got…business. Shouldn’t take long.” (2)

Aziraphale got a small box of pastries to go, and fretted the entire way to the train. He didn’t know whether Warlock was actually growing up neutrally human, or if what he and Crowley were doing was making him stranger than any human before. He worried about the influence of Mr. and Ms. Dowling – fairly kind but somewhat absentee parents, but that wasn’t exactly teaching Warlock about the power of love, was it? And he was locked out of the house most days. That was fine for a small child, who would rather be in the garden than cooped up inside with his nanny anyways. But Warlock would start school soon, and be out of both of their hands, for much of the day. After that it would be homework with his Nanny and dinner and organized sports and scouting and…rarely visiting the strange old gardener.

Aziraphale strode into his and Crowley’s usual car, took his usual seat, and stared distractedly out the window. They had used this train as a rendezvous more than once, meeting for the ride back up to the estate when Heaven or Hell called them away for meetings. He and Crowley did not sit together, to avoid suspicion, but Crowley would usually take the seat right behind Aziraphale. Angels and demons both had super-sensitive hearing, so it was quite possible to carry on a conversation while facing away from each other and barely moving one’s mouth. 

It was coming close to the train’s departure time, and still no Crowley. Aziraphale started to fret once more, but noticed the way that Crowley’s window seat, miraculously, stayed empty even as people started to sit near strangers. He knew Crowley was still coming, and finally he saw him, a head of bright red hair appearing to perform a very controlled fall down the stairs and then briskly, but nonchalantly, glide onto the train as the conductor yelled the All Aboard.

Aziraphale settled in and pulled a book from his blazer pocket. Anyone paying careful attention would notice that this book was actually much larger than the pocket, but no one on that train was paying too much attention. Crowley had gotten on a few cars ahead, and would have to make his way back. Aziraphale cracked his book open on his lap, to look as though he was doing something for the duration of the train ride. Humans found it quite unsettling to see someone simply staring straight ahead for extended periods of time. It didn’t help that he had to move his lips a little bit to talk to Crowley. A woman had sat next to him once, asked him if he was alright, if he needed help, and then proceeded to search for a seat quite far away. Crowley had those glasses he always wore; and it seemed thatmost people assumed he was sleeping off whatever exciting life Crowley seemed fresh from. (3)

Crowley swung into the seat behind Aziraphale and murmured “Angel, remember what you look like”; well below a volume any human could hear.

“Whatcha reading?” a loud voice at the edge of Aziraphale’s seat drowned out his response to Crowley. It had a distinct American accent, and was much too curious for its own good. Aziraphale looked up, and understood Crowley’s cryptic statement. It was Chef Chet, settling into the seat next to Aziraphale, grinning as he slid his arm along the back of Aziraphale’s seat.

1\. Aziraphale had a tendency to request off the same days as Crowley when they learned Nanny Ashtoreth would be given a surprise day off. The angel and demon had the apocalypse on their mind, and didn’t think about the fact that Humans are driven to find patterns in even random situations. The pattern had been discovered before they had finished their first full year at the Dowling residence

2\. Crowley needed to water and terrorize his plants. He did not want to admit to this.

3\. Aziraphale had once read the minds of the folks on the train, in order to see what they thought of Crowley. In a train car of 56 people, 26 thought he was a rockstar or musician, 13 thought he was some form of delinquent, 10 thought he was just an office worker in some hip new industry, 4 thought he was some sort of poet or author, 2 thought he was a man in a midlife crisis. The remaining person was the only one to come up with a correct label for Crowley: a tortured soul.


	3. A Train Of Thought That Goes Nowhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW: I've mentioned that this work is going to talk about body types and eating, and Crowley's thoughts wax about body standards and eating. There are no explicit references to disordered eating; but those who are sensitive to such discussions should be aware and take care of themselves.
> 
> Sorry this one took longer, last weekend was my birthday and I was much too busy eating an entire Cannoli Cake by myself to write. 
> 
> As always, bon appetit!

Chet’s smile was almost obscene and Aziraphale realized he had yet to answer. He simply stared, and gave that nervous smile he gave whenever he was in a situation he would…much rather not be in. He stammered out “Its uh, the collected works of Proust, particularly In Search of Lost Time – I’ve been meaning to reread it, after all, its been nearly 100 years since he began its writing, might do well to see how its aged…” (1) Aziraphale hoped to God that the answer sounded dull and academic. Compared to Wilde, Proust was certainly the lesser-known It Gay Writer of the early 1900’s. He knew Proust had recently been the subject of some discussion about the positive portrayal of male homosexuality in the writing, but he didn’t think most people thought much about Proust. Some musclebound chef wasn’t going to have an interest in a 100 year old, 4,000 page book by a man most folks couldn’t name.

Aziraphale heard a quiet, rapid whisper behind him “_Proust? On a public train? Why not just whip out a Playboy magazine, Aziraphale, do you have any shame at all? Reading such filth on a train where anyone could read it over your shoulder._” Crowley, apparently, had decided that he still would demand some portion of Aziraphale’s attention. The fact that Chet was going to be…interacting with him, and Aziraphale would need to keep a civil tongue, was not enough of a challenge for Crowley to be satisfied. Aziraphale couldn’t even tell Crowley to knock it off. While they could speak when folks were not paying direct attention to them, with Chet right there and clearly watching Aziraphale’s face, he couldn’t risk muttering to Crowley.

Aziraphale zoned back in when he realized that Chet had said something, unfortunately, still in “politely trapped” mode. Before he could muster up any rudeness, he had replied “Sorry, dear boy, come again?” Chet beamed.

“I said, what sort of pastries do you pair with Proust? I noticed the pastry box on your lap, figured you’d know that a thicc book and a delectable pastry are often a great pair.” Chet’s grin started smug and ended suggestive, with his eyebrows quirking up. Aziraphale heard the double meaning – he was meant to be the book, and Chet envisioned himself the pastry. He thought Aziraphale was thick??? Starting off this conversation by insulting Aziraphale wasn’t going to get him anywhere, and made it so much easier to be_… Thick doesn’t mean what you think it does. He thinks you’re attractively plump –he’s calling your Rubenesque, Angel. Its new slang._

Crowley’s whisper shocked Aziraphale. First, it was much more defeated than the previous hiss behind him. Second, Chet was attempting to flirt with him? This was worse than he could have ever dreamed.

Aziraphale sat up primly and pulled away from Chet. “It’s an assortment, from a lovely bakery in London. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to return to my book.” Chet looked over at the box and said “You know, I’m a baker - just moved here from LA to work for the Embassy’s family as their pastry chef. I don’t really know a lot of places, but this Sui Genesis Bakery doesn’t look like the sort of place I’ve worked before, I’ve always been a bit more of a health conscious baker. I like to sort of, reimagine things, into versions that are a little less guilt-inducing. I’m Chet, by the way.” (2)

Aziraphale realized Chet was not at all deterred, and was jumping into the “what do you do for work” portion of human flirting. Aziraphale hated this tactic more than any other. As an angel, for a long while he didn’t have a very good cover story. “Roaming messenger of God” was an answer that would often get you laughed at, if not killed. Additionally, the idea that one’s job was central to one’s identity struck Aziraphale as silly – people were so much more than who they worked for.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and nodded, and gave the most curt “Welcome” in the history of humankind. He lifted his book up a little bit and made a show of focusing on it, clearing his throat and rustling the pages loudly. He was quite capable of shooing folks out of his shop, but this was going to be harder. He couldn’t simply shout that they were closed and slam doors, and any minor miracle he performed to deter Chet would wind up clearing several seats around him as well. And he had just been reprimanded by heaven for frivolous miracles, hence why he was on this damnable train.

Chet sat in fidgety silence. Aziraphale stuck his nose into his book more firmly. Crowley had been planning on using the time on the train to tease Aziraphale about the state of the gardens, but this disaster commanded his full attention. When Aziraphale had heard what “thicc” meant, and his eyebrows had shot up, Crowley had nearly laughed aloud. But even now there was a touch of bitterness, and an alarming amount of pride exuding from Chet. Crowley could feel that Chet would try to get Aziraphale’s attention again. He’d performed enough temptations to see someone who didn’t know how to take a hint. Men like this were the sort Crowley avoided working with. Like many humans, they came up with strategies even a demon would blush at.

Crowley knew that, even if it hadn’t been Chet, trying to impress Aziraphale by saying he was “thicc” would have been a bad move. Aziraphale’s figure had always been soft, and it was a bit of a sensitive subject. It wasn’t clear that pesky human concepts like “calories” actually mattered to ethereal beings, more likely it was similar to how Crowley’s imagination made things just…happen. The cakes and baked goods and alcohol weren’t to blame for the fullness of Aziraphales stomach and thighs. After all, he had been the exact same size for hundreds of years – even through wars and rationing. Aziraphale thought of himself as a soft, slightly plump figure, and so he was. But Crowley knew that current human and angel standards about the “ideal body” bothered Aziraphale, and that he considered it a flaw that his corporation was resolutely pudgy.

In days gone by, there had been a wider variety of body shapes considered pleasant, and Aziraphale had even been the object of quite some desire at points. Now, though, the idea was to go back to the bodies of the under-nourished and unhealthy, the humans who had to work for every calorie and often spent far more than they earned; in the name of looking “fit”. Crowley’s physical form had been in fashion until recently – the “emo” rockers, and to some extent the hipsters, had encouraged androgyny and slimness, along with bad posture and manspreading. But as the fitness crew rose, he was too thin, too gangly, not muscled enough. Crowley though, saw these things much more tied to fashion than to judgement – bodies and clothes moved through cycles of desirability; and whatever health concerns the humans claimed to have about each other had absolutely no bearing on him. But Heaven was obsessed with the ideas of perfection of Her creation, and so they often issued memos on having a “proper” corporation when one visited earth.

No, thought Crowley, the better follow up would have been to ask Aziraphale about the book, and talk about how loved it looked and how well taken care of, and compliment him on his bookkeeping skills. Even a moron like Chet must have realized that the book was nearly 100 years old. Aziraphale had even said it was that old, and that he was re-reading it. Humans, for all their successes, were not that observant. He’d have started with the age of that book, then asked about the works of Wilde or some other long dead gay author, maybe someone more modern. Ask for a recommendation. And then just drop it, sit back, and wait for Aziraphale to get comfortably far in the book before……

Crowley’s train of thought suddenly went off track into a fiery ravine, rather than try to cross that bridge. He did not need to think about this. He did not need to plan that strategy. Not how he would try to pick up Aziraphale, not how that would feel, not about the absolute ice pit growing in his stomach as he watched Chet take his third glance at Aziraphale in two minutes. This did not need to be happening. He could, possibly, use a demonic miracle to clear out the train car. Just fill it with a heinous stench. Miracle up a leak. Have the heat crank on or something. Have a child start crying. Inspire someone to clip their toenails on the train. Plauge of locusts, that one hadn’t been done in a while

But Chet starts speaking again, and Crowley has to watch, slack jawed, as this idiot presses his luck. “So, I have to know. What pastries did you get? I’m really dying to know.”

“If you insist, I got two kouign-amans, a few profiteroles, a lemon bar, and a don tart. The selection today was excellent.” Aziraphale, annoyed as he is, can’t help but soften. He’s quite come to like this little bakery, the place that looks like a cluttered picnic. Its got fresh colors and mixed furniture and Crowley knows that the baker there is inspired by the Great British Bake Off, judging by the décor and the pastry choices.

“Solid choices, but a bit heavy…what do you say you come by and I show you something just as good? I make a great fatless sponge, and I make a lemon curd that could leave you permanently puckered up. I’d love to show my bakes to someone with a refined palate and plenty of experience.” Aziraphale starts at that, and replies “My apologies. I’m completely booked. No time at all for sponges or curs.” Crowley attempts to not snicker as he whispers up: _Cur? Really? That insult is so old and so subtle he’s not going to catch it. You’re wasting your wit._

“Maybe you’ll make time for a few nice buns then? Though, it looks like you’ve got some already.” Chet waggled his eyebrows at Aziraphale and he rolled his eyes. Good lord, this boy thought another cheap compliment about Aziraphale’s butt would do the trick. He really was a one trick pony – butts, baking, and bad puns. Did this work in America?

“No, thank you. I think I’m quite alright on baked goods for some time. I doubt I’ll feel the need to seek anything sweet.” Aziraphale was trying to be firm, but polite, as he hoisted his book up again.

Chet held out a small business card, his smile slipping in his desperation. “Well, why don’t you take my number anyways? There are only a few villages left on this line and I know none of the bakeries up here are as adventurous as your tastes seem to be. You really should come by, there’s this crazy old gardener who grows some seriously impressive plants. He literally looks like he stepped out of the 1600’s; weird sideburns and all. But, I could do fresh peach tarts.”

Oh shit. For Satan’s sake, Chet lives near the estate, and Crowley realizes that they’re all going to have to get off at the same stop. The next stop. Chet will know where Aziraphale lives. And Aziraphale will have to shake him before transforming into Brother Francis. That is going to get messy. _Aziraphale, just take it, answer him, I’ll handle this one. Get off at…whatever the stop after the estate is. Tadfield. There might just be a taxi waiting for you.” _Crowley seethes. He miracles a conductor and he comes through, calling “Quality Assurance ticket check, thank you all, quality assurance, tickets please, tickets please”. The barrel chested man clicks his ticket puncher incessantly, while wiggling a thick mustache. People grumble and stumble as they try to find their tickets. They’d already put them away, not expecting the conductor to bother checking so late on the line. Crowley thinks he should submit this as an evil deed, as the third man calls the Conductor a bastard under his breath.

The Conductor waddled up to Chet and Aziraphale’s seat. “Thank y’ sir, Tadfield, alright, two more. Ah, yes, young man, if you’re going to get off at the next stop you had best move forward, the doors on this car are busted and you’re going to need to use the next car up. Sorry for the inconvenience, I’ll walk you over myself if you like, this car is about done.” The Conductor bounced on his heels as Chet looked over to Aziraphale again.

“Sweet to meet you…and I’ll be waiting for your call.”

Aziraphale was tempted to not even look up. But he did, and as Chet sashayed away, Aziraphale watched as a thick wad of bubblegum, bright pink with fuzz and hairs stuck to it, appeared to smear itself across Chet’s rear end.

“_Oh really, now that’s a bit much.” _Aziraphale whispered and scolded Crowley, knowing that demonic bubblegum likely would be irremovable. But Crowley could see the smile dancing around the edges of Aziraphale’s lip in the reflection on the glass. _Its an old classic – nothing ruins your day like wondering how long you’ve walked around like that. Especially if you’ve met someone that day. _Crowley had been using that particular trick for ages. _I’ll get off here, I’ve got an errand in the village. (3)_

Aziraphale watched as Crowley walked up to the doors of the train car. Only he, Crowley, and Chet would have been getting off here, a good thing he sent Chet away. Crowley stood before the doors and snapped his fingers; making his door open a full few seconds before the others in the car. He had already loped past the car Chet was in, and was halfway to the stairs before Chet glanced back at the open doors of the car he had be lead out of. He raised his pinky and thumb, miming a phone when he saw Aziraphale. Aziraphale huffed and turned to the opposite window.

Aziraphale stayed on the train to the next stop, to Tadfield. He was confident there would be a taxi there, or some other means for him to get back. Crowley had never been one to half-ass the favors they traded, and so would ensure Aziraphale got back to the Estate. Aziraphale popped into the restroom to transform into Brother Francis. There was a cab there, quite confused, but happy to drop off Brother Francis, as he was supposed to be heading back to London anyways.

(1) As a wise man said: “People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint, it’s more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff.” In other words, I refuse to tie myself to a timeline because nothing is anachronistic if I don’t give you any more than a vague sense of when this is set.

(2) Sui Generis is a Latin saying which means, roughly, “unique”. Genesis is the book of creation in the Judeo-Christian religious texts. Sui Genesis; therefore, is a terrible biblical pun that amounts to the phrase unique creation. Aziraphale thinks this is the most cleverly named bakery in all of London. I finally decided on the right name for Lilith’s bakery, from my other fic, Aziraphale’s British Bake Off.

(3) Crowley had taken to yelling at some local plants late at night, and liked to make rounds by daylight to remind them that he was always watching. He missed his plants, but knew Aziraphale wouldn’t permit him to abuse the plants on the Estate. Nor did he want Aziraphale to know about the plants back in London. This helped him cope with the stress of armeggedon and the homesickness, and if the residents of the village were a little confused as to why they heard someone screaming in the night, well, chalk it up to a demon’s nature.


End file.
